


In My Favorite T-Shirt

by oneoneandone



Category: Women's Soccer RPF
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:02:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27625811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneoneandone/pseuds/oneoneandone
Summary: A bad day, a shirt swap, and a stable internet connection.
Relationships: Lindsey Horan/Emily Sonnett
Comments: 6
Kudos: 59





	In My Favorite T-Shirt

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt**   
>  _Could you write a sad sonny and sweet/comforting Lindsey based on Sonnett’s own goal today?_

“Hey,” Emily answers the call sounding glum, and Lindsey feels her chest tighten at the sound, wishing she could be there with her best friend, her girlfriend. 

“Hey, baby,” the brunette says softly, “can you turn your camera on? Let me see you?” And she can so clearly picture Emily’s hesitation, that face her girlfriend always makes when she’s reluctant about something. But after a moment, the screen flickers and Emily’s face appears on the screen before her. Lindsey’s heart cracks in two to look at her. 

“Oh, honey,” she whispers, reaching out to trace the lines of Emily’s face in the image. Her girlfriend’s eyes are red, the skin around them puffy, and just confirms what Lindsey had already known—how absolutely miserable the older woman is. How disappointed she is in herself, feeling like she’d let her team down.

“You watched the game?” Emily asks, her voice still rough and thick, and Lindsey just nods. “So you saw then, how I fucked up.” But it’s not a question, and Lindsey can feel her fist clench at the absolute self-loathing in the Emily’s voice. 

There’s this thing that most people don’t know about Emily, that most people don’t take the time to know. Beneath all the bluster and bravado is a woman often lacking in self-confidence, often overwhelmed by self-doubt and second guesses. And today, after the accident of an own-goal—something that’s inevitable in soccer anyway—the old doubts have snuck past her girlfriend’s defenses, settling in deep, making themselves a home in the heart of the woman she’s just about certain she loves. 

“Son,” Lindsey whispers, her heart in her throat, “you didn’t fuck up. It happens, and—“

But she can tell that Emily isn’t listening, that her voice isn’t loud enough right now over the volume of the one inside her own head. So Lindsey stops, and takes a different tack. 

“Hey,” she gives Emily a soft smile. “I have an idea.”

Emily looks at her, tilting her head in confusion. “What’s your idea?” she asks, and Lindsey’s smile grows. 

“You’re all tucked up in bed, right?” the brunette says, even though she doesn’t need the confirmation. She can see the now-familiar bedding and pictures on the wall in the bedroom of Emily’s furnished apartment, the sturdy wood of the headboard behind her.

More than that, she can see her own well-worn Denver hoodie, the one with the holes in the wrist cuffs where Emily likes to stick her thumbs to keep her hands warm when they’re on early morning runs during the off-season. The one her girlfriend took with her to Orlando, and now to Europe, to have something of Lindsey’s to wrap around herself. A pale simulation of Lindsey’s arms, but all they could manage across the great distances keeping them apart at the moment. She knows—Emily’s told her—that she wears it to bed every night. 

“Why don’t you get your laptop, and we’ll watch a few episodes of our show,” Lindsey says softly, her voice taking on that soothing tone she always tries to use when Emily needs a little comfort. A little reassurance. 

The blonde nods, and shifts out of view for a second, retrieving her computer, Lindsey assumes, and she takes the opportunity to move to her own bed—their bed, when Emily is there—and get all settled, pulling off her over-size sweatshirt and her leggings and slipping under the covers to wait for the blonde to return. 

“Hey,” Emily reappears and smiles as she looks at Lindsey, “that’s my shirt.” And the younger woman nods, her hand coming up to rub over the fading Cavaliers text across her breast, feeling the weight of Emily’s name spread across her shoulders, heavy and—and right. 

“What,” Lindsey gives her a smile, just the hint of shyness behind it, “you thought you were the only one who missed being wrapped up tight?” It’s something she wouldn’t admit to anyone, anyone but Emily, how much she misses—craves, even—feeling her girlfriend’s arms around her. 

And even though they’re still a little sad, and more than a little red, Emily’s blue eyes sparkle. “I miss you too,” she whispers, and for a moment, they let the quiet and the miles sit between them, just looking at each other, soaking each other in.

“Okay,” Lindsey breaks the silence eventually, “what episode did we leave off on last time?” And the question is unnecessary, because they both know exactly where they were. 

Emily takes a breath, still a little shuddery as she breathes out. “The Christmas episode,” she says softly, listing off her favorite, “with the teapot,” and Lindsey nods.

It’s not where they’d left off in their re-watch, not by far, and they both know the other knows it. But Lindsey would watch it a thousand times over if it would bring a genuine smile to her girlfriend’s face, if it would mean hearing Emily’s real, genuine laugh. 

“Right then,” she queues it up in the app that will let them watch together, even all these time zones apart, “good memory.” 

They make it four episodes before Emily drops off, finally relaxed and calm enough to sleep off the day’s disappointments, but Lindsey barely even notices the beginning of one or the end of another. Instead, she watches Emily through the iPad, watches the way the tension in her girlfriend’s face slowly eases, listens to the way Emily laughs at all her favorite places, and it’s almost—almost—like she’s here. In their big bed in their too-empty Portland apartment. If she closes her eyes, Lindsey can almost feel the blonde’s warmth, the way she shakes the whole bed with her big belly laughs.

Emily begins to snore softly, and still Lindsey lets the episodes play on, keeps the call going, ignoring the bright sunshine outside her window—so rare for a late autumn Portland afternoon—to keep vigil while her girlfriend sleeps.

This, across distance and time, she can do. Be there for the woman she’s almost certain she loves.

**Author's Note:**

> “Favorite T-Shirt (Acoustic),” Jake Scott


End file.
